The reason why I have no compassion for the lady whose husband tells her about his day is probably that I have to employ the methods of the Spanish Inquisition to make my husband tell me about his.
“What’s wrong with your shoulder?” I once asked seeing him wince.
“It’s been hurting a bit.”
“When did it start?”
“Well, it’s mostly since the accident.”
“It was icy on the road on Monday, so I lost control of the car and went over the railing.”
“Oh, it’s ok, the damage to the car is minimal.”
“Forget the car! Are you hurt?”
“My shoulder hurts a little.”
“You need to see a doctor!”
“I have. She says I’ve got a dislocated shoulder and need physical therapy.”
“You need physical therapy!”
“I’ve already been twice.”
“Why didn’t you tell me???”
“I didn’t think it was very interesting.”
“Wait, was that the same Monday when you spent two hours telling me in great detail what Vovan Japan [a Russian YouTube personality] said in his last 56 videos?”
“Yes, but Vovan Japan is interesting. He lived in Japan.”
“He didn’t live there with me, did he?”
This was two years ago, by the way, so he’s fine. I’m just giving an example of what I go through to drag information out of my husband.